


Stitched Into Your Skin

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1534094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>skye + ward give in and have sex in the shower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitched Into Your Skin

“It’s going to hurt,” Ward tells her.  He’s sewn himself shut countless times.  He doesn’t mind the pain.  He can tune it out.

“Is it going to hurt more than getting a chunk of my arm ripped off?” Skye asks.

“You didn’t get a chunk of your arm ripped off,” Ward says.  “It’s just a cut.”

“Let me have this, okay?” Skye says.  “A war wound of my very own.”  She doesn’t need any more war wounds, Ward thinks.  He’s seen her scars, on her back and  her legs. 

“Well,” Ward says.  “You’re the one who called me a ‘cocksucker’ when I used the antiseptic.”

“It stung!” Skye protests.

“I know,” Ward says.  “Hold still.”

 

She grabs the bottom of the chair, and sucks in a breath.  The needle’s clean and ready to go, and he lightly wraps his hand around her bicep, to keep her steady.  Still.  She’s tense.  She’s nervous.

“Haven’t you ever had stitches before?” Ward asks.

Skye looks down.  “Not something I like to think about,” Skye says.

“Relax,” he tells her.  “I know what I’m doing.”

She nods.  “Be quick, please,” she says.  He notes that he’s never heard her sound so vulnerable.

“Hey,” he says.  “Count backwards from 100, okay? I’ll be done before you know it.”  The softness in his own voice catches Ward off-guard.

Skye shuts her eyes.  “One hundred,” she whispers.  “Ninety-nine.”

 

The needle pierces skin.  Skye stutters in her counting.  Ward pulls the thread through, watching her breathe.  Watching her lips move as they form numbers.  Her voice catches each time he pulls the needle through.  But she keeps going.

“Almost done,” Ward tells her.  His fingers are quick, and the stitches are even.  He’s more careful with her than he ever is with himself; but then, he never gives his body the same consideration he gives Skye’s.  He watches her chest hitch when he pulls the thread, to tighten the stitches.

“Sorry,” he tells her.  

She shakes her head in response.  “It’s fine,” she replies.

“Keep counting,” he tells her, and she does.  He ties the stitches off.  Grabs the scissors, cuts the thread.  A nice, neat job.  Easy.  She’s shaking.

 

“You okay?” he asks.  He’s only a breath away from her.  He’s examining her stitches.  He’s studying her skin.  He’s waiting for her to open her eyes.

“Fine,” Skye says.  “Sorry.  You did a good job.  Better than Simmons, probably.”

He chuckles at that.  He idly traces his fingers down the side of her arm, caked with dirt.  Slick with sweat.  Soft and warm to the touch.  She shivers.

“Are sure you’re okay?” he asks.  She’s looking at him.  Right at him.  His touch lingers on her.  She could be sitting in his lap, if she just swung her legs over him.  If she just straddled him, right there.  Had they always been sitting this close?  Did he move?

She licks her lips.  “I’m good,” she says.  Something is wrong with her voice.  She sounds strained.

He leans forward and kisses her shoulder, right above her stitches.  He feels dizzy.  Sick.  When he pulls back she is staring at him, breath coming in short spurts.  Chest rising and falling.

“I’m glad,” he says.

She’s sweating along her hairline.  She has a bruise on her collarbone.  His shirt is somewhere by the door, ruined with bloodstains.

“I need a shower,” she says.  She grabs his hand.  Tugs.  She stands.    He stands.  He follows her footsteps, padding to the bathroom.  He steps in tune with his pounding heartbeat.

 

 

White tile, fluorescent light.  She is first into the bathroom and he follows.  The door stays open, leading out into the tiny hall.  He waits for her to turn and look at him.  To tell him to leave.

“Close the door,” she says.

He does.  “Are you sure?” he asks.  He thinks of how her skin felt under his lips.  He thinks of the sound of her breathing.

“Yes,” she says.  Not facing him.  He studies her back.  The lines of her shoulder blades.  The nape of her neck, as she sweeps her hair forward.  He takes a step.  Another.  He wraps his arms around her waist.  She tilts her head back.  Rests it on his shoulder.  

 

Now he’s shaking.  Now he’s worried.  Needy.  He leans forward, brushes his lips against her neck.  Her hand comes up.  Running fingers through his hair.  Touching the back of his neck.  He sucks on skin.  He lets her pull his hair.  She arches her back against him.  He pulls her closer.  Kisses a line along her throat.  She pulls out of his arms, pulls off her shirt.  Her bra.  She faces him, and she is unafraid.

 

They need to shower.  They need to get this dirt off their skin.  They are both warm, smothered, suffocating.  She kisses him.  First, in a breathy gasp, lips just brushing his.  He whines.  He grabs her hair.  She responds with her nails, digging them into his biceps.  So she can pull him.  So she can stand on the tips of her toes, and press her lips against his with a growl.  He’s pulling back.  Pushing his lips to hers until he is consumed with it, and his hands grasp at her face.  She claws.  She bites his lip.  He needs her.  All of her.  He is noisy and needy, and he kisses her with a swelling heat in his chest.

 

She pulls back.  Her lips shine.  He doesn’t register her hands undoing her jeans, until he notices that he has taken off his, as well.  She is starting the shower.  She leaves the curtain open.  She is waiting.  But he is still.  He needs to watch.  Her head tilting back, catching water in her hair.  Her breasts, her stomach, her waist.  Her body, her everything.  She stares back.  She traces lines into his skin.  He’s getting hard.  Very.  And she stares, without shame or restraint.  Back to his eyes.  He thinks she’s smirking at him.  God.  She runs her hands from her hair to her skin.  She wipes away the dirt.  The blood.  He catches sight of her stitches.  Lips on her shoulder.  Get in the shower.  Get in.

 

She keeps her eyes on him when she touches her breasts.  It’s not an invitation.  It’s a show.  He’ll do her one better.  He’ll show her.  He drops to his knees.  Water splashes over his shoulders.  Off her legs.  She teases her nipples.  Stares down at him.

“Well?” she asks.  He puts his hands on her thighs.  He looks up.  Like praying to a goddess.  Like giving tribute.  He licks her clit.  He’s wanted this for so long.  He licks again.  Feels himself twitch.  He breathes hard, through his nose.  He twirls his tongue.  She puts one hand on the back of his head.  Nails scraping in appreciation.  He licks in broad strokes.  She moans.  The first time he’s ever heard it.  It’s perfect.

 

He brushes his lips against her, sucks against her clit and feels her legs quiver in his grip.  He holds tighter.  He sucks until she is crying out in pleasure, licks until she is weak in the knees, practically falling backwards.  He fucks her with his tongue until she is panting, pleading, and he feels her shaking with need.  So he stands.

 

“Turn around,” he tells her.  “Please.”

She sways before him, hair soaked through.  Water running over the angles of her body.  Lips parted.  Eyes wild.  She nods.  She turns.  She braces herself.  He leans forward.  Kisses her shoulder, for reassurance.

“You sure?” he asks.  Always asking.

“Yes,” she breathes.

 

She moans when he pushes inside her, and that’s the only thing he can hear.  Her moaning incoherently, her little gasps that almost sound like his name.  He doesn’t want to hurt her.  She is so small and perfect and oh, God, she feels amazing.  She is amazing. 

“You can go harder,” she says.  She rolls her hips.  She rolls her hips and he is going to lose it.  He wraps his arms around her.  Rests his head on her shoulder.  She is writhing.  “Please,” she groans.  “Go harder.”

 

He doesn’t know how to function.  That’s what he should tell her.  She is too perfect, and he had gotten her so close.  She needs him.  He needs to make her happy.  Go faster.  He does.  She cries out, she tenses, she begs.  She pushes back against him.   He will make her happy.  He will do this for her.

 

She comes with a ragged little cry, a spark rolling through her, and Ward holds her tightly, lets her ride it out.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her.  He is not usually this bold.  But it is the truth.  “God,” he says.  “You’re perfect.”  He fucks her in long strokes, and she is so vocal, so loud.   He needs her.  He needs to feel her.  And he does.  He does, as she mewls and squirms.  He will make her come as many times as she wants. 

 

She grabs his hand and pulls it to her breast.

“You’re,” she gasps out.  “You’re going easy on me.”  She bucks.  One.  Twice.  Faster.  She’s making him go faster.   “I don’t want easy,” she tells him.  “Pull my hair.”

He does.  Her hair is dripping wet and sticks to his skin.  He pulls her hair and she cries out.  She tenses, in a way that makes him curse and jerk his hips.  He pushes into her, hard.

“Like that,” she says.  Her voice is honey.  Her voice is silk.  It’s everything.  “Do it just like that.”

He pulls her hair back.  He grabs at her breast.  He can feel himself slipping.  He wonders if she can feel him slipping, too.  Giving in.  He could get another orgasm out of her.  He could make her come when he does.  She’s sensitive.  Needy.  He’s moving faster.  The water is getting colder.  He needs this.  He’s aching.

 

And then.  And then she pauses.  His hand still in her hair.  Still grabbing her breast.  She moves forward.  She leaves him.  Turns around.  Grins.

“Think you could lift me?” she asks.  

He responds by kissing her, pulling on her lower lip and pressing her back against the shower wall.  He grabs her ass, she lifts her legs, he needs this he needs this.  He pulls her to him.  Presses into her, and she sucks his neck in response.  Arms around his shoulders.  Nails against his back.

“Grant,” she urges.  “Please.”

 

Anything for her.  Anything at all.  He digs his hands into her skin, grabs, anchors, fucks her until her kisses turn into muffled moans and then wrenched out cries.  Until she feels him throb and tilts her head up, just enough to kiss him on the lips.

 

He begs, with a whine pressed behind his teeth.  She responds by biting his lower lip.  Kissing him until the air leaves his lungs and the control leaves his body and he needs to come, he has to.  Her hands crawl up his back, dig into his scalp.  She is light, soft, she fits just _so_ between his chest and the wall, she is moving against him, she is warm skin and everything he’s ever wanted.  

 

When he comes, he thinks that it is for her, only for her, and his knees shake and his body trembles, but he holds her with an urgency that suggests only that he would like to do this with her forever.  Her lips leave his, sighs escaping her chest, his chest, exchanging in the small space between them.  Her legs fall back to the ground.  When he releases her, she slumps back against the wall, slides down until she is sitting and the water comes down on her head.

 

He pants.  She smiles up at him.  She takes his hand for a second time, and pulls him, again.  To sit beside her, in the lukewarm water.  She rests her head on his shoulder.

“I needed that,” she says.  Fingers laced with his.  Hair along his bicep.  Skye.  _Skye._

He almost says ‘I love you,’ but this is their first fuck and only that.  And if he feels love, it is best to keep it to himself.  He kisses the top of her sopping wet head.

“You’re perfect,” he tells her.

She looks up at him, something strange flickering in her eyes.  Hope?  Pain?  “Not quite,” she says.


End file.
